love child of earth and blood
and purpling sky, with
eyes that need only glance
to pry
open doors that have long been
bolted shut.
those eyes
a mix of dirt and blood;
sway me into a
drunken stupor, consume me
with your cabernet eyes.
the mind of a poet
is composed mainly of
metaphors. memories
tucked away in dusty attic corners,
scents that reek of sadness
and love. it is always full,
always thoughtful,
almost always awake.
conscious.poets digest more in their minds
than their stomachs. always chewing
chewing chewing on
thoughts and words. always connecting
neurons to each other,
composting every experience to
fertilize the mind.
not always fruitful, but
always growing.
Silenticel 